Mags Flanagan and the 11th Hunger Games
by Melodic Musings
Summary: Mags Flanagan existed in a world before the Hunger Games, when she is reaped during its 11th Year, what awaits her in the arena?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Anything relatable to The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins and her publishers.

Summary: Mags Flanagan existed in a world before the Hunger Games, when she is reaped during its 11th Year, what awaits her in the arena?

Author's Note: I love these books. I love Mags. So this story was born.

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Do I remember a time before the Hunger Games? Not really. I was born during the uprising, when everything in the Districts became paralyzing, when everyone became discontent. I was born as my District raised torches and refused to work and rallied with the other Districts in Panem. I was swaddled by my mother and sung to sleep by my father as the people around us took up arms to attack to the Capitol a couple thousand miles away.

The first five years of my life were crippled with fear and doubt at the future of Panem, but I didn't remember them that way. My father was a fisherman and maybe he would have taken a part of the uprising had I not been a little baby, but he chose not to. My mother, he and I lived in a small cottage near the edge of the sea with a few other families. We were pariahs to our neighbors, unwilling to fight against the unfairness of President Snow and the Capitol, but as my mother would later tell me, there was no choice, not with me.

Knowing my future, I wish my parents would have fought, would have fought hard and long even though I was a baby, but in my heart I know it wouldn't have made a difference. The Capitol's power was too much even for thirteen districts full of hundreds of thousands of people to come against it. The natural barrier was too strong for them to penetrate it. Then the darkest days truly came and our punishment laid out in the Treaty of Treason.

My first memory was of my parents discussing the new instatement of a pageant called "The Hunger Games", I didn't realize then that that should have been a clue as to how the rest of my life might end up. I was sitting in the small sitting room of our cottage, playing with a rag doll, and I heard my father cursing in the connected kitchen, "It's sick and barbaric!" he hissed at my mother.

I saw my mother nod solemnly, "Do you expect any different?"

"What is it even going to be like?" He asked, "They give us six months to prepare for our children to be sent to the slaughter? To fight to the death? We have to watch that?"

I heard my mother sniffling, "The only consolation is we still have another seven years till we have to worry about Magnolia."

Dad slammed a dish on the ground, "Mags is not going in. There is nothing they can do."

I saw my mom put a restraining and comforting hand on his arm, "Aaron, there is nothing they can't do."

The first Hunger Games began six months later, and despite it being the first, the Capitol took to the bloodshed and sport of it easily. People in the District disliked it, but we grit our teeth and tolerated its existence. Mother tried to shield me from it as much as possible, covering my eyes during the gorier scenes, but even she knew she couldn't protect me from it for long. So it became a yearly festivity, Districts one and two won more often than other districts, but District four had our first victor four or five years in; that's when they started work on the Victor's Village.

In our own form of descent of the Capitol we all had hard physical training in school, beginning as soon as we begun, working and studying in combat, different use of weapons and survival techniques. The physical labor of our District that it took to sail, fish and haul were beneficial to us too, especially because even the youngest members of the district were able to work. I don't know when it happened, maybe it was just a way to cope, but becoming a Victor became a highly desired quality, with people even beginning to volunteer.

I remember walking to my first Reaping with my friend Clara, "I don't understand volunteering"

I shook my head, "I think it's pride and ego. Some people really excel in the physical training, maybe they feel like it will be a good thing for the district."

Clara started to weep, something I had been holding in all day, "I am sorry," she whispered, "I am just so scared."

I nodded solemnly. I tried to take out tesserae in an attempt to get some extra food and not overwhelm or burden my parents but they outright refused. My father still was angry about the very existence of these games. Seven years later the fire in his eyes hadn't died whenever we talked about them.

I patted her arm gently, "We all are scared, Clara, we all are. Just think though, there are thousands of slips, and we each only have one. The likelihood of us being called is so small."

We stepped up and signed in, and were herded into the pens in front of the justice my left I could see the water, the waves gentle crashing onto the beach, the salty smell filling my nostrils and the sea breeze calming me. If I just looked that way, if I just thought about the nice warm swim I had that morning, if I could just do that, if I could just pretend I was weaving a basket, making a fish hook, I could get through this day.

Melinda Glammer steps up to the microphone on the stage and taps it gently. She is wearing a seagreen dress that's fluffed out at the bottom in a poof, her bodice is an alarming dark blue color and she wears bright pink stockings on her legs. To her credit, if there is any, her hair matches the color of her dress bottom.

I turn to Clara, "I guess matching isn't in fashion in the Capitol this year"

Clara snickers and knocks her hand against me.

"Welcome! Happy Hunger Games!" Melinda bellows into the mic. "May the odds be ever in your favor!"

I look around me, everyone in their finery looks unbelievably bored, scared, confused out of their wits, even the older boys and girls hate this aspect of celebration, part of me believes that even the ones who volunteer despise it a little, but they believe they are bringing our District honor. Maybe they do in certain ways because of parcel day and things like that, but when I see those people in town I don't think of them as heroes, I think of them as murderers. They did what they needed to of course to survive, even the ones who volunteered.

Our mayor stands up and begins to read the Treaty of Treason, and describing the Dark Days, which most, if not all the people in the square were alive for part if not the entirety of it, but in the seven years since the start of the Hunger Games, they repeat it every year. I stare at the sea while he drones on, imagining myself in the water, in the arms of my father as he tosses me into the waves, the sight of my mother weaving a basket on the beach or rowing the boat out to us.

Clara nudges me, "Mags" she whispers

I look up, Malinda is clopping over the the girl's ball. I must have spaced out so much I didn't even notice her give her usual "Ladies first,"

Clara squeezes my hand tight and I squeeze hers. All our worst nightmares are in this moment, whether or not we train, whether or not we have won twice already in the short history of the Games, this is the culmination of our worst fears, our parent's worst fears. This is the worst punishment the Capitol could devise, to keep us in its vice like grip year after year after we just tried to take care and stand up for our rights as citizens.

Malinda's hand dives into the ball, cupping the slips of paper, and bringing them up, rustling them around, prolonging the already excruciating moment. She finally, blessedly grabs a slip of paper and walks back to the microphone, teetering on her heels. She unfolds the slip slowly, smoothing it out. I want to scream at her and curse at her for taking her time, thinking that we are all waiting in happy anticipation, eager for the next tribute to be chosen, in reality we are all sick with anticipation.

Malinda cleared her throat, I shut my eyes tightly, my grip on Clara's hand undoubtedly causing her some pain, I took a deep breath in, "Prenulia Greenwell" her voice rang out.

All the air flew out of of my body and relief coursed through me so viciously I felt like I was going to pass out. I was safe, I was safe. I wouldn't be sent to the slaughter. I was safe. Clara began to weep in relief and covered her mouth, keeping her head down as I watch Prenulia walk toward the stage. She staggers, tripping over her own feet and I try to place her.

She isn't in my grade, not even close to it. The crowd is murmuring, and Prenulia has her face tightly masked, as if she doesn't feel a thing about it. I hear a girl near me whisper, "She's eighteen, her birthday is next month"

I sigh, as awful as it is for a twelve year old to be picked for the Games, it is a different kind of unfortunate feeling for an eighteen year old to be picked. There was such a strong amount of hope for her, she was almost done, almost out, almost free of this torturous affair. She stepped onto stage and fixed her glasses onto her face, while Malinda called out for volunteers. None were forthcoming and so Malinda moved on.

Malinda took the same amount of time for the boy's ball, extending the ceremony far more than was necessary. I caught my breath, even though I wasn't at risk this time. She walked back to the microphone and I glanced back at Prenulia. She was just of age when the first Hunger Games started, she had escaped every year and I could see on her face, the hatred building in her eyes, the frustration.

For the rest of my life I would think of her face whenever I thought of the Hunger Games, the hard impassive mask with hatred brewing within. She had all the reason in the world to hate the Games. She had a boyfriend, I think, they were going to be married when both of them escaped the reaping this year. I wonder if her lover would volunteer to be her District mate in the Games.

"Brenett Ragford!" Malinda called out

A young boy, who was fourteen began the walk to the stage. He, unlike Prenulia wore his heart on his sleeve. The tears rolled down his face as he walked up to the podium. He looked shocked, the picture of weakness to Pernulia's indifferent mask. The reaping wrapped up quickly and Prenulia and Brenett shook hands and then were escorted into the Justice Building.

We were free to go after that, I walked back to my parents after squeezing Clara's hand in reassurance. My Dad hugged me tight, crying into my hair softly, I melted under his kindness and concern, I knew how much he had sacrificed for me, and I knew he was so upset and scared about this today, maybe more than even me. "Let's go to the beach, love, your mom packed us a nice picnic."

My mom nodded and extended her hand toward me. I knew these Hunger Games would be worse than the last because I would be watching them knowing it was possible for me to one day be in them.

Those games were particularly hard to watch. Brenett was killed in the bloodbath on the first day, but we watch Prenulia fight through the arena-a prehistoric jungle with large lizard creatures called dinosaurs. Prenulia stuck to herself and had good instincts, she was the oldest Tribute and stronger than most of the others but she died after stepping on a poisonous root which took two days to kill her. We waited in District 4 to see if she would make it, there were only three people left including her and we weren't sure if the other two would kill each other first before her. But we saw her, ravaged with pain and visions, overcome by weakness and tears, die, crying out for her mother and father.

The Hunger Games were a part of our lives briefly for no more than two months each year, and we spent the rest of the months pretending it wasn't going to happen again...pretending like we weren't going to be reaped or sacrificed again.

That is life in District 4, that is my life. Or at least it was until I turned sixteen.

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Author's Note: Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Anything relatable to The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins and her publishers.

Summary: Mags Flanagan existed in a world before the Hunger Games, when she is reaped during its 11th Year, what awaits her in the arena?

Author's Note: Thank you for the review!

Four Years Later…

My fingers worked swiftly as I made knots to weave a large net. I hummed quietly to myself, letting the sea breeze calm my nerves and soothe my frazzled brain. I looked out to the sea, ten or so ships hovered on the horizon, some fishermen with tridents, others with nets, others with poles. I enjoyed weaving nets, it made me feel like I was contributing to the benefit of the District.

Today was the Reaping, there were still a few more hours of freedom left before the pure and unadulterated panic that still consumed me every year. Even more so when two years ago, Clara was picked out of the reaping ball. It was something we never thought would happen, not really. Watching her walk forward was pure agony, until Malinda called for volunteers, and a brutish seventeen year old name Aleenda volunteered as Tribute. Clara's face registered immediate and overwhelming relief. She waited until Aleenda stepped up on the podium and shook hands with Clara.

"Would you like to contest" Malinda had asked, and before the words completely left her mouth, Clara had shrieked, "No!"

That day was terrifying for both of us, the reality we had grown to deal with and tolerate became real and visceral again, we couldn't escape, our names were in that Reaping ball, as likely to be picked as anyone else's. Clara spent the following weeks in misery, especially after Aleenda died in the games just four days in.

The bell in the square began to toll and I looked unhappily from my net. I'd been working on this net for a month now, interweaving different types of rope and seaweed with different knots to strengthen it and try to keep the fish from splashing about. It was a gift for my father for his birthday. I knew I was gifted at weaving and knotting, I was well suited to this life in my district, although I enjoyed swimming and fishing, I liked to work in development, understanding new technologies to make our District better.

I got up off the beach and walked to our cottage, stashing the net in the little work shed attached to our land. My mother's face looked grim as I walked in. "I ran water for you into the tub for you to wash and set out a dress on your bed."

I looked at her, "Mom, I'm sixteen, you don't have to do this every year."

My mom smiled, "Mags, you're my daughter, I am going to take care of you no matter what age."

I looked onto the counter, noticing the oranges for the first time in a bowl,"Where did we get these?!" I exclaimed

Mom smiled, "We ordered them special, Dad has been catching a lot more fish because of those new nets you've been making him"

I flushed, "We'll have a perfect dinner tonight with those to look forward to for dessert,"

Mom nodded, "Yes, now go get dressed."

I wandered up to the wash room and quickly rinsed my hair and body, using a small amount of soap. We didn't usually have to be overly concerned with conservation of goods here, but when I was a child, we were very careful with what we had and unsure when we could get more, and old habits died hard.

I toweled off and stepped into my room. Mom had left out a soft coral green sundress laid out on my bed with matching black shoes, an old dress of hers which was now retired. I slipped it on and brushed out my curly blonde hair, letting it be free to fall down my shoulders. In the distance I could see people begin to make the walk to the square and I steeled myself for the ceremony.

No matter how long you did it, no matter how many times your name was in, the nervousness prevailed. I still didn't know how to handle it, I still didn't know how to prepare myself for the walk to the square and for the Reaping. My mom walked out of the cottage with me where my father was coming up from the shore, he waved us ahead, "Go on, loves, I'll see you after."

As Mom and I walk to the square, halfway there we meet up with Clara and her parents. As with years past, Clara and I immediately grasp hands and made the walk in silence. Terrified silence. We walk into the pens, set aside for sixteens. I can't imagine how hard this is for her, having been reaped before, being barely saved by a girl who had more pride than sense. She had learned though to grit and bear it in silence, an unfeeling mask, just like Prenulia.

As soon as we walk into the pen, we keep our eyes fixed on a point in the distance, even as Malinda comes up onto the stage in a garish pant-suit and beehive wig that's multi colored and ugly. "Welcome!" She bellows into the microphone, "Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!"

The odds are never in our favor. I close my eyes briefly, feeling the anger course through me. The Hunger Games and the very idea of favor or luck when they create this system to murder us disgusts me. I work hard, trying to get my face back in check, a mask of indifference as I hear her continue to speak, "This is the 11th year of our esteemed Games, and I am sure you're all as thrilled as I am to see which Tributes go in this year!"

I fight to keep myself from rolling my eyes, doesn't she know the complete disdain we all have for her? The Treaty of Treason is read, and I let the words roll past my ears, making no impression on me, I turn and look toward the sea, sighing as I hear without listening, wondering about our world, wondering what we could have done to have deserved this.

"Ladies first!" Malinda trills, and walks over to the ball. As she does every year she scoops her hand down and cups some slips into her hand brings them back up, mixing up the slips a little more. Her dainty, manicured hand grips on from the very top and she walks back to the microphone. Clara grips my hand tightly and we both look down at the ground beneath our feet, shutting our eyes.

Malinda clears her throat as she smooths out the slip, "Magnolia Flanagan!"

My whole body goes rigid and I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me. This is a dream, it has to be a dream. I hear Clara to my left crying out, and a gasp from the back of the back where the parents and older generation stand. This isn't happening. My eyes instantly fill with tears but I fight them back, waiting for my feet to move. "Magnolia Flanagan," Malinda repeats somewhat impatiently.

I give myself three seconds of immobility and then I need to move. I count silently. One, I let go of Clara's hand. Two I take a deep breath in and concentrate my face into the impassive expression I saw on Prenulia's at my first reaping. Three, my feet begin to move and I push through the pen, down the aisle and up to the stage. My hands are sweating and I wipe them on my sundress as I walk up, with shaky feet I mount the stage.

Malinda's hand on my back feels unwelcome and I have to work to not flinch away from it. "Introduce yourself, dear" she coos

"I am Mags Flanagan" I say flatly.

"Congratulations, Mags!" she says, "Do we have any volunteers?"

I have a small hope someone will raise their hand. Will this be the year I am saved as Clara was a couple years before me? Can I be saved? The moment seems to stretch into eternity as the silence surrounds and engulfs me. No, this isn't like Clara. There is no prideful and strong girl who wants to fight to the death in this pageant. I am alone. There is no one to volunteer, no one to take my place.

"Okay!" Malinda says brightly, "On to the boys!"

I keep my face as impassive as possible, but inside my body my heart is pounding so hard I feel like it could beat out of my chest. Every single thought is roaming through my head and colliding. The Hunger Games, I am a Tribute, I will have to fight to the death in an arena. The arena could be anywhere, or anything, my fellow tributes could be half my size or twice my size. What would I do? How would I fight? I was decently sized, I was moderately athletic, average for the girls in ny District. I knew from years past that other Districts are smaller in stature and not as well fed as us, so that's why we usually did okay for the most part in the beginning, but I wasn't sure, not about my abilities.

Malinda did her mixing of the boy's slips and I watched from the corner of my eye. I prayed it wasn't someone I knew, it wasn't a boy my dad mentored or a boy I knew from school. I prayed it was a stranger, just a stranger. Malinda teetered over to the microphone again and I fixed my eyes straight ahead, keeping my face impassive.

"Rynand Fleetword!" she called out.

Inside a wave of relief went through me quickly. A complete stranger. His surname wasn't even familiar to me. My wave of relief soon turned sour though as I heard people murmuring in distaste. No wonder his surname wasn't familiar to me, he was 12 with no older siblings, an only child of his parents, just like me. I hoped inside for him that someone older would volunteer for him; there were plenty of the types in my class, brute boys who loved showing off, one of them for sure could volunteer for him.

I knew fleetingly inside me that a volunteer could mean my death more easily for me, but I wished for his sake a volunteer would come. Just one Tribute changed can alter the course of the Hunger Games, it is a game of odds in certain ways. "Any volunteers?" Malinda rings out to my right. I wait and hold my breath, but again the silence is deafening and I can see Rynand's face fall as his tears stream down his face. We turn to each other and shake hands.

A Peacekeeper lays a hand on my back and ushers me into the Justice Building. I catch one more glance of the ocean, of freedom, desperately trying to burn it into my memory. I take a deep breath, taking in the salty air, committing it to memory as I am pushed through the doors. We walk up a flight of stairs and the Peacekeeper pushes me into a room and without a word closes the door.

The room has no windows, depriving me of a further look into my sweet beautiful ocean. I looked around the room, the mahogany walls, I had never been in here before. It certainly had a level of grandeur you didn't see often in District 4 where all the wood looked a little faded, and every surface always had a few stray bit of sand on them. I sat on the couch and folded my arms trying to keep my wits about me. When was I allowed to fall apart?

I was allowed goodbyes, and then we would be taken to the train station, were there cameras there? We'd be transported to the Capitol by train, then we would have a week of training in combat and survival skills, and then interviews, and then...the Games. I would have precisely tonight on the train to be vulnerable and to fall apart. I could make it till tonight. I could bottle it up until tonight.

The door opened, and my parents raced in. Both of their faces were stricken with tears and the sight made my throat close up, I couldn't see their pain, I couldn't be a part of it, it hurt too much. I tried to leave some part of me emotionally open enough so they knew I wasn't shunning them, but I saw in my father's eyes he understood completely. He held out his arms to me and I went straight into them, smelling his scent. It was the salt of the sea, the scent of well cooked fish and home. It was incredibly pleasant to me, bringing up memories of childhood boating trips, when I caught my first fish, the nets I have weaved for him the past few years. It was another smell I tried to burn into my memory, to carry with me.

"I love you," he whispered, "No matter what happens in there, you remember that."

I nod into his chest and he releases me, my mother entangling me tightly in her arms, "I am so sorry this happened to you." she murmurs against my hair, brushing her hand softly down the length of it. I breathe her in too, memorizing the feel of her strong arms wrapped around me, her soft maternal feel.

I stepped away and looked at them, "I'm fine,"

"You're so clever," my father said earnestly, wiping his eyes, "Do what you need to do, use your wit and your skills to survive."

I nod, feeling tears fill my eyes, I knew this was their worst fear for me, I knew they had never wanted to see me enter these games and it was unfair that they had to see it.

"If there is water, stick by it, you can survive longer than you might think by living off the water. Remember all the plants you can eat, and listen to your mentor." My father says quickly.

My mother grabs my arm and tugs me close to her, surrounding me in another hug, and I feel my father come around my other side and hold both of us in his arms.

I suppress my tears but my chest feels painfully tight in the effort to do so, "I love you," I whisper through a cracked voice.

"I love you too," they both whisper back, peppering my hair and face with kisses, "We believe in you," my mother whispers in my ear.

The door opens and a Peacekeeper beckons my parents to leave. They both grab one of my hands and holds on as long as they can. "We believe in you! We love you!" They call as the Peacekeeper drags them away.

The need to cry is overwhelming and I take a few seconds to recover. I will hold all these feelings in on the inside until it's safe for me to let go this evening.

The door opens again and Clara bursts through, tears streaming down her face. She runs to me and I embrace her tightly, patting her hair as my mother had just done to me. I find myself comforting her which feels more natural and better than for her to try and reassure me.

"I know you can do this, Mags," she whispers.

"I don't know about that, Clara." I whisper back, "Killing people is something so different."

Clara nods, "But it's your life, Mags,"

I look at her harshly, how could I explain to her what I was feeling? How could I express the absolute fear that wrapped me up to think about killing someone else, someone innocent. I don't know if I could do that, and in order to win, I know I would have to. "It's their life too." I responded simply

She grabbed my hand and led me to the couch and we sat, she looked at me earnestly, "You're my very best friend, I know what you're capable of, you need to survive."

"I'll try to survive, I'll try to win." I whispered. I remembered the conversations Clara and I used to have in the dead of night, whispering about how we would feel if we got reaped.

I had always felt like I would rather die myself than take someone else's life away. Life was precious, my parents had worked hard to preserve mine. I didn't have a blood lust like some other Tributes. I couldn't imagine killing someone.

We sat in silence for a little while longer, neither of us really knowing what to say, there were no words for a moment like this. We were being given the chance to say how much we meant to each other, to say goodbye; but the terror of the moment made us mute. There was nothing I could say to her, she had been my best friend since birth essentially, she knew how I felt, I knew how she felt. The pressure of our hands, the pressure of love and concern was enough to express everything.

When the Peacekeeper opened the door a short time later, Clara got up with one squeeze of my hand and left through the door. I was welling up inside. There was so much to feel, so little time to feel it. Soon I would be at the train station, where more cameras would wait, to show the people of the Capitol the poor unfortunate souls who were subjected to their torture. But it wasn't anything like torture to the people of the Capitol, it was jolly good fun; a competition. Never mind that innocent people died, it was supposed to be an honor to compete for the people in the Capitol's amusement.

My disgust grew as a Peacekeeper ushered me out of the room and down the hall into the car. My first ride in a car made little to no impression on me as I seethed underneath. I was a good person. I gave to my district and shared in my talents with them and I loved them. I was kind and maybe a little quiet but I didn't deserve this. There were people in my District who loved these games, who wanted to compete...why hadn't they volunteered in my place?

At the train station cameras panned close to our faces. Rynand made no attempt to hide his tears or pain, I looked heartless next to him but I didn't care because as soon as I let my tears fall, that would be the end. I wouldn't recover as soon as I started crying.

We were ushered into the train by Malinda to find our mentor, Seb Frond, already sitting in the car eating an apple. Seb was the oldest winner of the Games from our District having won four years ago at the age of sixteen. Mentors liaised with Capitol citizens and sponsors to help us in the Games, and I looked at Seb with thankfulness because he was at least competent. His mentor, Lionel River, when he won the Games was just two years older than him at the time. Even after the short period of time, Lionel was already riddled with drug and drink to cope with the loss he experienced during the Games.

Seb, however, had been a volunteer, and although it was clear the Games had scarred him, he seemed to deal with it differently than the others, and that worked in our favor. He waved at us as Malinda took us down a hallway to our rooms. She indicated to Rynand where his room was first, and then a handful of doors later, conducted me to my room, "Dinner is in two hours, please be in the dining car."

I nodded, stepping into a luxurious bedroom with sitting room attached. I wondered if I should take a shower, but I didn't want to shake the smell of my home yet. My hand grazed the top of the bed, stunned by the softness of the sheets. I sat down slowly, preparing myself for the weeks to come. I had some time now, to finally fall apart.

I laid down on the bed, pulling the covers up to my face, buried my mouth in them, and screamed. Tears flew to my eyes and I felt my chest open up and begin to release the pain I had bottled since I heard my name ring out across the square. I sobbed as I thought of my parents, Clara, I sobbed over my District and the probability of my death. I cried so hard my head ached and I lost my voice in grief.

This wasn't something I could handle, I wasn't equipped for this. I let all the fear and pain leak through, I didn't want to hold anything back. As soon as I left these doors I wanted to be ready, and I wanted to be fighter. So I let go of everything, every single emotion and cried myself out for a solid hour.

When my tears ceased, I got up to wash my face, blow my nose, and rinse my eyes. I took a hot shower, letting the water flow over me and the soap soothe me into a modicum of relaxation. I could do this. I could be a Victor. I was smart, and witty, there was always water in the arena, and I would stick by that. I wouldn't think of taking another life until it was necessary. I would think of my life and preserving it at all costs.

When I dressed I looked in the mirror, I was ready to fight.


End file.
